Endearments of a Twofoot
by Flying Stone
Summary: Ever wonder how Sam got his pots? A hobbit story in the Shire complete with mushrooms, the Baggins family, an elvish necklace, and a shy little Twofoot who lives down in Bagshot Row.


**Endearments of a Twofoot**

Though expected, the death of Old Mother Gamgee came as a surprise to the residents of Hobbiton, and with it followed much sadness. But none felt as empty as Samwise, who had loved his grandmother from the very bottom of his stomach that she had lovingly filled so many times. And a very sad hobbit it was that stood pruning the thick green bushes that nestled above the red and yellow flowers on the side yard of Bag End.

"Oh!" the hobbit suddenly cried, as the clippers slipped, cutting his round finger.

"Sam!" Sam looked up to see Mr. Frodo's head pop out the cellar window, his mouth stuffed with apple pie. "Are you hurt?"

The loud cry summoned a crowd of the more kindly hobbits to come rushing up to help, surrounding Sam until Mr. Frodo, in a moment of gallantry leapt out the window help Sam, but instead landed face down in the vegetable garden among the squash. Sam watched as the attention suddenly switched to the fallen young gentle hobbit.

"Sam!"

Another voice said behind him. He turned and saw the dark curly head of Ham Twofoot running up the rise of the path.

"Is there much blood, Sam?" He plopped down beside the slightly older hobbit and plucked a handkerchief from the front pocket of his yellow jacket and wrapped the injured finger in it. Meanwhile Frodo, who was unhurt, was sending the other hobbits away.

Sam backed up a little, "It's quiet alright Ham, I'm not all that badly hurt! Just a scratch…"

"Just a scratch? Why, Sam!" Frodo laughed. "Don't be stubborn. Let me help you! Come in the house now!"

Sam unwillingly got up and followed the young Baggins. Ham trailed behind, being that his best pocket handkerchief was still wrapped around Sam's finger. The three trooped in through the round door, down the hall, and to the kitchen. A bright fire burned in the hearth, and over the cheerful flame sat a kettle of water, heating for supper.

Ham's chin dropped as he looked up at the shelves stacked with food. His round, dark eyes picked out mince pies, apple tarts, cheese, and a brown paper package, saying on the front in big brown letters, "Longbottom Leaf, Finest in the South Farthing!"

He shrunk back quickly as he noticed Bilbo sitting by the hearth in his favorite rocking chair.

"Well, well! Samwise!" Bilbo chuckled from where he sat, "I hope you're not hurt badly. I've seen you working in every yard in Hobbiton, but now it is in ours that you are injured?"

"No, Uncle," Frodo interjected. "Sam has merely cut his finger."

"It's only a scratch," Sam added. "And I am just saving my pennies to buy the pots my Grandmother taught me to cook in."

"Buy them?" Bilbo asked. "I thought they were to be left to you in her will!"

"No, sir." Sam said as Frodo bandaged his finger and returned Ham's handkerchief. "She had just a few debts that hadn't been paid off, so Mr. Sandybanks decided to have an auction of her things. And now I have enough to buy my pots."

Bilbo laughed and ruffled Sam's sandy hair. Then he turned to Ham.

"Now who is this?"

Ham stepped backwards bashfully, nearly tripping over his hairy feet. "Ham Twofoot, sir. I live in Number Two Bagshot Row, sir, and I came along to help Sam."

Bilbo nodded pleasantly, but then his eyes widened and he fingered his pocket as he always did when excited.

"Wait, my boy! What is that around your neck?"

Ham nervously grasped the small green leaf charm he wore on a string. The smooth emerald leaf felt like cold polished glass in his warm hand.

"I found it in the woods, not but two days back, sir. I thought it was pretty, so I kept it."

Bilbo nodded with a faraway look in his eye.

"It is elvish. Take care of it," Bilbo said. "It is a piece of what will soon be Middle Earth's past."

Ham, though bewildered, nodded.

Bilbo smiled and was about to speak again when a rap came on the round, green front door.

"Oh, dear. I had better go check that."

The young hobbits watched as Bilbo hastily shuffled out then heard the creak of the front door opening.

"Mr. Brockhouse! How nice to see you again!" Bilbo's voice could be heard in the hallway and then moving to the living room.

"Hide!" Frodo said. "It's Till! He is not overly fond of young hobbits!" Laughing, he pushed Ham and Sam under the sturdy wooden table and then he clambered into a cupboard. "He shouldn't stay long. My uncle doesn't like him either!" Then he closed the door. Ham and Sam looked at each other, maybe Mr. Frodo really was cracking. But as they sat there they could hear voices floating up from the living room.

"I dare say, have you heard?" Mr. Brockhouse said loudly. "That old woman who made the coney stew that the whole Shire clamored about, she finally kicked the bucket!"

Sam tensed angrily, but Ham put a hand on his shoulder to hold him back.

"Now her pots are in the auction! I shall buy those pots even if I need to spend every penny in my pocket. Of course I have a lot," he snorted. "Did you know, you can't find pots like that anymore. I've heard that they were crafted by the dwarves! Now that's durability."

Curious, Ham crept closer to door. As he peered around the corner he could see straight into the living room where Mr. Till Brockhouse sat. The living room itself was charming, with small oddities resting on shelves. Mr. Brockhouse, dressed as finely as he was, seemed out of place.

He was a big hobbit, and his large feet were up on the stout wooden table. His stringy tan hair hung around his face, which was creased with frown lines. From the depths of these wrinkles Ham could see to beady dark eyes peering out. His pudgy hands rested on his round stomach. The rest of the conversation was quieter, but the three hobbits watched until Bilbo finally spoke up.

"All right, Till, I'm sorry you must go. We will have to talk again some other time."

As the two hobbits walked out, Ham felt boiling mad. How dare that old hobbit say such mean things about Sam's grandmother. Suddenly, he jumped up and ran out after the two elder hobbits.

"Mr. Brockhouse!" he started, but suddenly lost his courage and fell quiet, his cheeks turning pink. Then Sam was at his side. Good old Sam!

"Sir!" Ham started again. "Those pots mean a lot to Sam. I think he should get them!"

Till looked angry for a moment, but then composed himself.

"Run along now, little hobbits. Those pots need to go to someone who has time to use them wisely and to make a difference in the Shire."

"But Sam could make a difference! He could make a difference in all of Middle Earth!" Ham blurted out.

Sam looked at him nervously. "Ham, I've never left Hobbiton." Ham waved his hand to shush Sam, but as he moved his elvish necklace swung forward. Till's eyes gleamed with interest as he caught sight of it.

"What is this pretty thing?" he asked. "Elvish is it? I collect things like this. Why don't you give it to me and I'll keep it safe?"

Ham looked defiantly at him, but said nothing, as his usual bashfulness returned.

Thankfully Bilbo came to the rescue and escorted Till out while apologizing for the young hobbit's behavior. Frodo, who had popped out of the cupboard just as soon as Ham had dashed out, assured his concerned friends, "Don't worry, Uncle Bilbo isn't mad at you. But nonetheless, you had best be going."

Sam nodded and the two slipped out the back door.

They walked down to Bagshot Row together in silence. Ham stared at the ground as the soft, tan dirt worked its way between his toes and his small footprints were imprinted over the tracks of farm wagons. Sam's stomach growled as the sun's last golden beams drifted over the fields before finally being pulled behind the hills. Before Ham turned off, he asked Sam, "What are you going to do now?"

Sam looked up and said determinedly, "I am going to get those pots, even if it is the last thing I do! I'll keep on working tomorrow. There are yet two more days until the auction. Do you want to come? I wouldn't mind the company."

When Ham nodded, Sam told him, "Be ready to pick mushrooms for selling at six o' clock."

And the next morning as the warm sun slipped back over the fields the two hobbits were already trundling a wheelbarrow out to the woods. Sam looked determined as he lifted the barrow over the ruts in the path, and Ham walked beside him, singing one of Bilbo's songs.

Another day passed like this, but by the second the wheelbarrow was loaded full and Ham looked determined too, now, as he pulled from the front, stumbling over the furrows in the soil. At first, he had just been interested in helping Sam because he had nothing better to do. But now he was nearly as caught up in this as Sam was, seeing how hard Sam was trying, Ham knew how much the pots meant to his friend. They both took the mushrooms down to the Green Dragon to sell. After Mr. Cotton had bought the mushrooms for a good price Ham pushed the empty wheelbarrow as Sam counted the money.

"Well, Ham, we might have enough, but, still, Mr. Brockhouse is a genteel-hobbit. I'm just a gardener. It is a fool's hope to think I can really buy the pots. Oh! But wait. Here is your share. You picked just as many mushrooms as I did."

Sam handed Ham half of his earnings.

"But, Sam! Now there is almost no chance of…" Sam interrupted.

"Keep it, Ham. You deserve it! Now you buy yourself a nice box to keep that necklace in."

Ham stood still, in such a shock from Sam even suggesting such a thing, that he just accepted the money. As he looked down on it in his round palm, he knew that nowhere could he find another hobbit so true as Sam.

And so on the day of the auction Ham stood right beside Sam, balancing on his toes to see over the head of the taller hobbits. He could see the auctioneer, Mr. Sandybanks, holding an old teapot and there was Till, sitting up front, snorting at the low prices, the pocket of his green vest fat with money, all waiting for the pots. Ham realized also that there was little hope for getting the pots, but as long as Sam stood there, Ham was determined to also.

The day had started out with gray clouds hanging over the trees, but a warm breeze had blown all traces of rain to the Ettenmores, letting the sun pour down. More hobbits than Ham had ever seen before were gathered at the auction. Even a few from across the Brandywine.

Ham's hand closed around his necklace and he tugged it anxiously. He could see Mr. Bilbo near the front and Mr. Frodo up in a tree. The front row was reserved only for those who had come of age at thirty-three. Frodo and his cousin Merridoc, both of whom were only 23, had found a way around that and were sitting comfortably on the broad branch of an oak right over the front row. The old bark beneath them was cracked and worn from the many spectators it had held before. The green of the auction field surrounded them, with still dew damp grass beneath their feet and the occasional buttercup, nestled around the roots a tree.

Then the auctioneer's wizened old face smiled as he held up the set of pots. "We all know about what great soup Old Mother Gamgee used to make with these! Now do I hear three?"

And so it began, starting with many hobbits but quickly dropping out to just Sam and Till. As the price went up and up Ham could see from Sam's face that he knew he would lose, but yet he kept on trying.

As Ham tugged his necklace again he suddenly thought of how to pay Sam's friendship back. He untied the necklace but realized that at this rate he could never get to Mr. Brockhouse before Sam's money ran out!

Only just as he was thinking of this, a young hobbit, a Took by the looks of it, bumped into Mr. Brockhouse with the new wheelbarrow he had just purchased, and sent the genteel-hobbit tumbling backwards down the hill. The other helpful hobbits swarmed forward to help him to his feet. Ham decided that now he needed to make his move. He clasped the leaf charm tightly, and ducked through the crowd until he was right in front of the flustered Mr. Brockhouse, who was still recovering from the fall.

"Mr. Brockhouse, sir!" he called up to the tall hobbit.

"What do you want?" Mr. Brockhouse growled back.

For a moment, Ham couldn't speak, but then pushed out, "Do you want the necklace I have? The elvish one?"

Till's eyes lit up with an excited glint.

"Give it here!"

"No!" Ham said stoutly. The other hobbits had all rushed to help the young Took who had fallen in his wheel barrow and was rather bruised, so only two others heard what followed.

"I will only give it to you if you stop bidding on the pots!"

Mr. Brockhouse stood silently, then cocked his head like a bird of prey considering whether or not to kill.

"As you wish." He snatched the necklace from Ham's hands. Then as the auction continued he shook his head at the auctioneer, and turned to push his way out of the crowd.

"Sold!" Mr. Sandybanks cried. "To Samwise Gamgee!"

The hobbits cheered, but Sam looked bewildered. Then as the truth hit him, he hugged the pots to him, and then held them up to show Ham. Bilbo smiled at the two youngsters, knowing in his heart that to Ham, an old elvish necklace was nothing to putting hope in the heart of a friend.

Ham just shook Sam's hand, and gave him a big smile.

**Epilogue**

_Ten years later…_

"There's only one way to cook a brace of coneys!" Sam scolded Smeagol as he grabbed the dead rabbits from him.

Frodo looked on half smiling as Sam diced the meat, Smeagol hovering nervously beside him. This could make the nicest meal they had had so far on the rode to Mordor to destroy the one ring.

As Sam dumped the meat into one of his pots he ran a hand over the nicked and scratched metal lovingly and said, "I'll just never understand why Mr. Till stopped bidding at that auction. Do you remember that auction, Mr. Frodo? Mr. Till was going to win, I was sure of it, but then he stopped, and you and Mr. Merridoc jumped off of that old oak to congratulate me. As I recall, Mr. Merridoc knocked Mr. Bilbo clear off his feet on accident. Ham just stood there smiling. And poor Pip! He had a bruise on his face for a week from that tumble in the wheelbarrow!"

Frodo laughed, but then turned thoughtful.

"Sam, old Brockhouse stopped bidding in exchange for the elvish necklace Ham had. Ham did it for you."

Only the whish of grass brushing in the wind and Smeagol's panting broke the stillness that had settled over the small camp.

"Why didn't he tell me?" Sam finally whispered in disbelief.

Frodo smiled. "Because you would have been too stubborn to accept it."

Sam looked away for a moment, moved by the reminder of kindness in such a harsh world.

"He really had faith in me."

Suddenly Smeagol started wailing, "Oh, he ruins it!"

Sam stirred the soup gently. He whispered so softly that even Frodo couldn't hear it.

"Good old Ham Twofoot. With a friend by your side, there is always hope."


End file.
